


Later, Later

by secretsoup



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Crushes, Emotional Support, F/F, Second Person Perspective, mentions of canon-typical emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 11:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15581019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsoup/pseuds/secretsoup
Summary: Webby makes you want to be a better person. You haven't really been one, up until now, but it's kind of an earth shattering concept that you haven't had much of a chance to be any kind of person at all, full stop, let alone a good one.(Lena takes stock of her situation and makes some important personal choices.)





	Later, Later

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-season one finale, written pre-season finale. We've got uuhhhhh 6 days before this gets Jossed in a big way.

You're having a crisis in the dollar store.

Not crisis. It's something worse than that.

Scrooge has Webby and the boys in South America for three days, and you're _kind_ of hurt that you're not allowed to go on family adventures yet, but not enough to let it bother you for more than like, ten minutes. You get it. You're not family, and also there’s all that stuff that went down that you are kind of mostly responsible for. So, whatever, it’s just you and the maid and the ghost and the guy who lives in the backyard for a few days.

It is extremely boring.

So you wander down into town because you're bored and lonely and to steal a new eyeliner pencil because the one you have is down to a nub and you don't want to ask agent double-oh-grandma for money for a new one- in part because you don't think she'd give it to you, but also, you just don't want to ask anyone for anything. You're not in the habit of asking for help. There’s a lot of firsts happening in your life right now, but asking your new guardians for money for dollar-store eyeliner after you've nearly gotten them all killed isn't about to be one of them. They've done more than enough, way more than you deserve, for sure. After....all that. Everything.

But it's fine, stealing eyeliner is nothing, half of the things you own have been lifted. What are you gonna do, ask daddy for $20 and a ride to the mall?

_(Don't...think about that, now.)_

It's one more thing in a long noble heritage of stuff you didn't pay for. No big deal. 

But,

You're browsing the hair doodads, taking your time and looking as average and uninteresting as possible, and you see this bow. It’s pink (her favorite color) and it's printed with a pattern of small, almost-imperceptibly paler pink skulls, stealth creepy, secret morbid, and you think, cute. Webby would love this.

And you reach to secret it into the sleeve of your sweater and... stop yourself halfway, holding this stupid little barrette, because, well. There's two ways this can go.

One: you take this thing and give it to Webby and lie to her about where you got it. You're very good at lying to Webby. You've done it before. You'll probably do it again. She doesn't deserve it, after all the trust she put in you, and continues to, even after, but. "I found this" you could say. Technically not an untruth. "I found this, and I thought of you, and even though I keep thinking of how you wouldn't like how I got it, I didn't think of you enough to let it stop me from doing it."

Or

Two: You could tell the truth, which is somehow worse. "I stole this for you," you could tell her, and Webby, who has never wanted for anything money could buy her, wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand that taking small things no one would miss is just the way things are for you. It's just your reality. (You don't want her to have to understand.) She would be disappointed, and upset, and think less of you, which you would absolutely deserve, because in all honesty you’re not a very good person. You always feel about one mistake away from ending up like Her, one selfish move between a dumb screw-up kid and

a

 

m o n s t e r  


Your vision swims and you can feel Her on your back and in your shoes, cold on your skin under your feathers, and you must have made a sound because the clerk at the register is looking at you and, awesome, now you've been noticed.

"Papercut," you quack, hoarse, holding up the cardboard card the barrette is clipped through. Another lie. Super cool. You're on a roll now. You reach to hang it back on the peg and miss. You bend down to pick it up and spend an extra minute, head down, just for fun, trying to catch your breath.

 _She's gone_ , your favorite mantra, _she's gone_. She's not here. But! That's the scary thing!! When she was here, the only one she could hurt was you. As long as she was still here, haunting you, berating you, trying to get you to kill yourself trying to free her, it meant she was still mostly harmless. But now she's just Out There. Chased off for now, but for how long? Biding her time. Hurting people, probably. Because you waited until it was too late. Because of YOU.

A hot bubble rises in your chest. You need air.

You stumble outside and put the sun at your back so your shadow is where you can see it. But it's just you. You try to do the breathing exercises Huey taught you but it's not helping, so you carefully trace the whole outline of your own shadow with your eyes three, four times until your breath stops hitching.

 Still just you.

Not that YOU is anything to be proud of, but. It could be worse.

(It could be so much worse.)

Calm down, Lena. Find somewhere to sit and calm down. A bench at the end of the strip mall. Pigeons lose interest in you immediately when it's apparent you have no food for them.

 If you get caught shoplifting, they're going to ship you off to boarding school. You're about 75% sure that's the plan anyway, and 85% sure it'll be whatever the real-world equivalent of Hogwarts is, but meaner, so you can at least be trained to know enough to not accidentally turn everyone into toads, or worse--

 Bile rises, and you swallow it back down.

  _That wasn't even real, it wasn't real and you'd never hurt her, you don't even think you could do that spell if you_ tried _, which you wouldn't. You don't want to do magic ever again, if you can help it._

 What it really comes down to is this: If you get sent away for being a problem, it will make Webby sad. That thought alone makes you want to spend the next two hours rescuing cats from trees and helping little old ladies cross the street. You would do almost anything for her, and considering what that might come down to in the future (what it's come down to in the past,) staying out of trouble seems like a reasonable thing to ask of yourself.

Bored or not, it’s probably best to go back to the manor. Maybe Webby will be home soon.

(Webby is too good for you. You don’t deserve her. That first night they brought you home ( _home?_ ), she stayed up with you when you were still in shock and too scared to even think about sleeping. She made it all night and fell asleep in her breakfast the next morning.)

_The second night, the two of you turned her (your?) (shared) entire loft into one giant blanket tent, warm and pink, strung with fairy lights and ancient wards of protection. Some, you suspect, are real. They're made of old leather and feathers and lots of red string and they buzz under your fingertips when you touch them. Others are made from popsicle sticks and ribbon. (Actually.... actually. Those ones are probably the strongest and realest of them all.) It feels safe there. She tells you stories about the things she’s done, and the loft-fort becomes a tomb, or a temple, or a tent in a cave on the slopes of Mount Neverest, and you get totally swept up. You don’t have to pretend to be aloof or disinterested anymore, not even to yourself. You don’t have to pretend to be cooler than you are, because she already knows the worst about you, and she still likes you, somehow. Against all odds. Imagine that._

Webby makes you want to be a better person. You haven't really been one, up until now, but it's kind of an earth shattering concept that you haven't had much of a chance to be any kind of  person at _all_ , full stop, let alone a good one.

 _"None of this was your fault," Beakley had snapped, steaming, livid, twice as big as usual and three times and intimidating, and before you cared about any of them, you'd been able to go toe-to-toe with her like she was any other passing inconvenience in your life. In that moment, you had wanted to ask, if it's not my fault, why are you so_ **_mad_ ** _? But it's not you she's mad at, it's Her. "What she did to you was unconscionable. You're just a_ **_child_ ** _."_

Beakley has a cold, controlled fury that is somehow scarier than being screamed at.  You know, objectively, that she's right, but sometimes it's hard to actually believe. Beakley's been putting Webby through weird survivalist training since she was a hatchling, you don't see how that's much different than....okay. Okay, maybe it’s very different. Okay, maybe you were a literal slave.

 (You really try not to think about that, though. You can think about the time She spent as your shadow, because you had some semblance of control then, kind of. But when She was in your bones and filling your skin, using your face and voice and hands…. It's like your brain just slides right over it. It's like you weren't even there. Like it happened to someone else, a galaxy away, but it still manages to make you feel unclean enough to want to spend an hour in a bath hot enough to cook you.)

Maybe this is the first time you've been allowed to be any kind of person, good or bad. Maybe it's time to examine that.

When you get home (home?) you find the little field notebook Webby made and decorated just for you. It looks just like hers but it's got a black cover and is spackled with stickers of lightning bolts and skulls. They glow in the dark. There's not much in it yet, you're just not as creative or fastidious as Webby. You turn to a fresh page.

 

Things about Lena, (rehabilitation edition):

 

  1. member of the orphan club
  2. Still a witch, unfortunately
  3. Decent shoplifter (recovering)
  4. Smart ass
  5. Good at lying
  6. Survivor of extreme emotional abuse, neglect and manipulation
  7. PTSD and/or anxiety (see 6)



These last ones aren't words you had for yourself, they're ones Donald gave you. You understand maybe a quarter of the words that come out of his mouth (which means, sadly, that you're improving) but you can tell he knows what he's talking about and that he's trying to help. You overheard him tell Beakley that you should be in therapy, which is honestly kind of terrifying. You're not in the habit of talking about your feelings. You might be convinced to go if Webby could come along too, but that's probably not allowed, huh.

This list is kind of grimdark. Nice things? If Webby were making this list, what would she say?

 

  1.  co-conspirator, adventure haver
  2.  pillow fighter, secret keeper, story teller, popcorn sharer
  3.  hair brusher, make-over giver, hugger, late-night whisperer, hand-holder--



  
Aaaaaactually this list is pretty stupid!!! You clap the notebook shut and stuff it under your mattress. After three angry laps around the loft you allow yourself one (1) pillow-smothered girlish squeal of... _something_ . Not squeal, groan. Of agony! Totally not the same thing. You fish the notebook back out, tear out the page, and seriously consider just _eating_ it before sneaking down the hallway to Webby’s (your?) (shared) bathroom. You tear it into confetti and flush it down the toilet. There. Something else you don't have to think about right now.

_If not now, when?_

Later. Don't worry about it. It's not important.

(No wonder they think you need therapy.)

  
  


Donald is down by the pool blasting the oldies station on a taped together radio with bad reception while cooking something on the grill which is convenient because you're hungry and Donald is an incredible cook. Maybe there’s something he needs help with in return for sharing his lunch and if you spend all your mental faculties trying to have a conversation with him it’ll keep all this dark garbage from rattling around in your brain. Sometimes you also get good dirt on the boys this way. Win-win.

Donald’s a good guy and no one really gives him enough credit, least of all the boys. Donald doesn't have much, but he does everything in his power to make sure his kids are safe and healthy and happy and _your_ last guardian was 0 for 3 on that front, so even just chilling with the guy eating grilled corn on the cob with your feet in the pool is a breath of fresh air. He’s telling you about how Louie spent a stretch of time between the ages 6 and 8 in which he was irrationally afraid of stop-motion animation and it's a great story that will make excellent leverage at a later date,

(no it won't, fear isn't funny, not anymore)

but your mind starts peacing out when you can't keep up with his words so you settle on looking vaguely interested while he happily info dumps about his family. You don't think you've ever actually seen him and Scrooge interact, and there's something there, but you don't know what, and also, its none of your business. The thing about his sister is more interesting but you only know what Webby's told you, which isn't much. You failed that particular sidequest when you saw the picture Dewey carries around and said, “Wow, your mom was a babe,” and now they won't let you play detective with them. Webby gets you caught up later.

_(“I'm not wrong though, right?”_

_“No, she’s super pretty.”)_

He notices eventually, and stops talking, and the silence brings you back into the present. With the practice of someone who has spent too much time deflecting and faking it and deflecting by faking it, you put on a sympathetic face and say, “Don't you worry about them? Out there, y'know. Adventuring or whatever?”

“Of course I do. I can't keep them cooped up forever, though. It's a big world out there, they should see it while they're still young.”

That's what he says anyway, but he seems sad. You think about item 7 on your (very stupid) list and wonder if what he really means is “while they still want to.”

“Don't worry, Lena, she’ll be just fine.”

You stand up abruptly, snatch up your shoes, and storm off in proper petulant teenage fashion, except the effect is spoiled by your wet feet slapping comically on the poolside pavement. “I don't know _what_ you're talking about.”

He has the nerve to laugh at you, not in a mean way or anything, but you’re thirteen and deeply embarrassed to be called out on something you didn't even know yourself until like, 20 minutes ago. You flip him the bird over your shoulder as you _SLAP SLAP SLAP_ back into the manor, and he just laughs harder.

 

  
It’s late when the crashing and yelling and apologizing means Launchpad has brought them back home more or less safely. You try not to look like you’ve been waiting up for them, but, well, you have. It's been a long, rough day and you want to see your best friend. You amble into the foyer in your nightshirt and slippers trying your best to look only mildly curious at the noise and not like you're waiting for an opening.

“LLLENAA!” Webby is the only one with any kind of energy; Huey is doing his best to drag Louie, who flat out refuses to carry his own weight any more, up the stairs to their room by his ankles, while Dewey is dangerously close to doing that thing that happens when you aren't paying attention and run a video game character into a wall.

“Hey, welcome home.” You’re chill like you haven't been sitting up waiting for her to return and, believe it or not, while you definitely have, it’s not Webby you wanted to talk to.

Scrooge is casually using the tip of his cane to steer Dewey in the approximate direction of the  stairs. “Mr. McDuck, I- _whoa_ -” Webby has enveloped you in a rib-bruisingly forceful hug, strong enough to actually sweep your feet out from under you, and when she sets you back down you're breathless and a little dizzy. Scrooge is chuckling fondly.

“She missed ye-”

“I _missed_ you!”

“-and she made sure we knew it the whole time.”

Wow. Uh, okay. “I, uh, missed you too.” it comes out as a wheeze. You redirect your attention. “Mr. McDuck, I wanted to talk to you? About some stuff. If that's okay.”

You aren't intimidated by him, exactly, but he does kind of hold your entire future in the palm of his hand, so it doesn't hurt to play that game. Its not manipulation, really.

“It’s late, lass, cannae it wait until morning?”

“Uncle Scroooooge,” Webby’s voice comes from the corner of her mouth conspiratorially, and you're not sure you like that one bit.

Scrooge regards Webby for a second, then sighs. “Alright lass, no time like the present. Come along then.”

Webby gives you two big thumbs up and a huge cheesy grin when you look back at her over your shoulder to try and figure out _what the heck_ as you follow Scrooge to his home study.

He settles in at his large but not particularly impressive desk - Scrooge likes money more than he likes the things it can buy, which is just _wild -_ and you perch on a small wooden chair opposite him. He digs through a drawer, shuffling papers, and when you open your mouth to ask him what you came to ask him for, he shushes you. “Just a moment,” then, finding what he’s looking for: “Ach, there we go. Sorry it took so long. We went the extra mile. No sense doing anything halfway.”

He slides some documents across the desk to you. Forms on thick paper with complicated seals on them, a small leather booklet -- You don't know what half this stuff is, but you know a passport when you see it. Tentatively, you pick it up, and you open it. Inside is your face, and your name.

Sort of.

It doesn't say Lena de Spell.

It says Lena le Strange.

“What-” you start, but your throat closes up.

“It was bold of us to assume, but we know you've had a rough time of it. Sometimes we work hard to prove ourselves to our kin and do right by our family.” He looks at you meaningfully over his little spectacles. “But sometimes the best thing you can do is cut yourself free and do right by you.”

You finally swallow the lump in your throat. Don't cry. Don't cry, don't cry. “Le Strange?” you ask, because it's a, well. Strange choice.

“That,” he says, “was Webby’s idea.”

A bark of laughter-slash-ugly sobbing breaks free and you cover your mouth. “Of course,” you say, when you've composed yourself a little, but your eyes are wet and if you wipe them it’ll just make it more obvious how much of a big dumb baby you are.

“Of course,” he agrees. “We can change it back if you like-”

“No.” It's Her name, and you don't want it. But also….. But also. (Later. Think about it later.) “No, it’s perfect. I love it. Thank you.”

He arranges the rest of the documents and hands you a pen. You sign your old life away with your new name. You’re Scrooge McDuck’s ward now, which is kind of surprising. You thought Beakley for sure. No one’s adopting you, which is fine by you for like, three or four reasons you can think of off the top your head. He’s your guardian until you turn 18 “or until circumstances dictate otherwise” which is. Weirdly open ended. _(What does he know?)_ But just the same, this is home now. And you’re going to travel with them, and see the world-for _real_ , maybe you can _for really real_ go to Paris and touch old Parisian skulls with Webby.

And you’re going to do right by these people.

“Now then, there was something you wanted to ask me?”

Oh boy. “I want a job,” you blurt, without letting yourself pause to chicken out.

“There are laws against that now,” Scrooge says wryly, amused. “Or so they keep telling me.”

It's a joke, but only kind of. He’s looking at you kind of sideways, like he's surprised by you, and curious, and waiting to hear more.

“I want to earn some money. Not a lot! Just. A little. I'm thirteen,” you say, as if Scrooge McDuck understands things like hair dye and concerts and shared fries at Denny’s, and just. Things you want to buy and not ask for because you're not a kid anymore. “I’ll work for it. I don't know what I'm good at yet, but. I want to learn. I want to-”

 _Earn my keep_.

He likes this. He likes this _a lot_ . He slams his hand down on the desk, sending pens and documents scattering. There’s a fire in his eyes that makes you shrink back in your chair, wide eyed and just a little frightened. What have you _done_.

“It’s _about bloody time_!” he bellows, leaning over his desk, and you honest to god think he's going to climb on top of it. “I knew one of you would turn out right! You’ve got promise, lass, I knew ye did!”

“C-cool,” you say, shaken, because you revert to smart-assery in times of stress.

Scrooge looks at you, scrunched up in your chair, and remembers himself. He clears his throat and settles back down in his seat. “We’ll find something for ye. Now run along, I think Webby’s waited long enough.”

“Thank you, again, sir.”

You excuse yourself, but stop, with your hand on the doorknob.

There's one more thing you could ask him, and you turn, the question on your tongue.

This is what stops you:

You know, without a doubt, the answer will be no. Hearing that no will affect your relationship with this man from this moment forward. If he says no and it's the truth, that's fine. But if he says no, and it's a lie, then he's keeping something from you. You won't have any idea which it is until you find out for yourself, but you’ll doubt and mistrust him until that moment comes, regardless.

If you don't ask him, he won't lie to you.

Lena le Strange is turning over a new leaf. She’s going to stop lying, and she’s going to work for her money, and she’s going to trust people. She’s going to be a good person. (She’s going to have to apologize for flipping off Donald, for sure.)

“Goodnight, Mr. McDuck.”

“Goodnight, Ms. le Strange.”

  
  
  


Your plan is to pretend to give Webby a hard time about keeping this a secret from you, but when you see her you just wrap your arms around her and squeeze her until she stops laughing and squirming and gives you the time you need.

Webby’s too good for you. You don't deserve her.

But _holy crap_ are you going to try.

  
  
  
  
  


It's about three am and you can't sleep. It's later now. For one of the things you've been putting off, anyway. Not. Not that one. The other one. The easier one.

You creep across the loft to Webby’s bed. She’s a light sleeper, trained that way, so you only have to shake her and whisper her name once before she pops awake, looking for danger. She relaxes when her eyes adjust and she recognizes you.

“Lena? What's wrong?”

You climb up onto the foot of her bed and sit cross legged, building courage. You've thought of the best present you could possibly give her. Way better than a dollar store hair bow tied up in a crappy lie.

And it's something you can share, just you two.

 “Webby, do you know anything about Poe de Spell?”

You give her a mystery to solve.

 


End file.
